A Woman's Life Page #40

"A Woman's Life" (French: "Une vie") by Guy de Maupassant tells the poignant story of Jeanne, a young noblewoman in the 19th century, as she navigates the complexities of love, marriage, and societal expectations. Spanning her life from a romanticized youth to a disillusioned adulthood, the novel explores themes of gender, class, and the harsh realities faced by women. Through Jeanne's experiences, Maupassant critiques the constraints imposed by society and highlights the emotional turmoil that often accompanies personal choices. The narrative is both a reflection on the individual's struggle for autonomy and a subtle commentary on the limitations placed on women of the era.

								

shaken off some venomous reptile, and, running to the window, she wept
bitterly. All her strength seemed to have left her; she sank on the
ground, and, hiding her face in the curtains to stifle her moans, she
sobbed in an agony of despair. She would have crouched there the whole
night if the sound of someone moving in the next room had not made her
start to her feet. Perhaps it was her father! And all these letters were
lying on the bed and on the floor! He had only to come in and open one,
and he would know all!

She seized all the old, yellow papers--her grandparents' epistles, the
love letters, those she had not unfolded, those that were still lying in
the drawer--and threw them all into the fireplace. Then she took one of
the candles which were burning on the little table, and set fire to this
heap of paper. A bright flame sprang up at once, lighting up the room,
the bed and the corpse with a bright, flickering light, and casting on
the white bed-curtain a dark, trembling shadow of the rigid face and
huge body.

When there was nothing left but a heap of ashes in the bottom of the
grate, Jeanne went and sat by the window, as though now she dare not sit
by the corpse. The tears streamed from her eyes, and, hiding her face
in her hands, she moaned out in heartbroken tones: "Oh, poor mamma! Poor
mamma!"

Then a terrible thought came to her: Suppose her mother, by some strange
chance, was not dead; suppose she was only in a trance-like sleep and
should suddenly rise and speak! Would not the knowledge of this horrible
secret lessen her, Jeanne's, love for her mother? Should she be able to
kiss her with the same respect, and regard her with the same esteem as
before? No! She knew it would be impossible; and the thought almost
broke her heart.

The night wore on; the stars were fading, and a cool breeze sprang up.
The moon was slowly sinking towards the sea over which she was shedding
her silver light, and the memory of that other night she had passed at
the window, the night of her return from the convent, came back to
Jeanne. Ah! how far away was that happy time! How changed everything
was, and what a different future lay before her from what she had
pictured then! Over the sky crept a faint, tender tinge of pink, and the
brilliant dawn seemed strange and unnatural to her, as she wondered how
such glorious sunrises could illumine a world in which there was no joy
or happiness.

A slight sound startled her, and looking round she saw Julien.

"Well, are you not very tired?" he said.

"No," she answered, feeling glad that her lonely vigil had come to an
end.

"Now go and rest," said her husband.

She pressed a long sorrowful kiss on her mother's face; then left the
room.

That day passed in attending to those melancholy duties that always
surround a death; the baron came in the evening, and cried a great deal
over his wife. The next day the funeral took place; Jeanne pressed her
lips to the clammy forehead for the last time, drew the sheet once more
over the still face, saw the coffin fastened down, and then went to
await the people who were to attend the funeral.

Gilberte arrived first, and threw herself into Jeanne's arms, sobbing
violently. The carriages began to drive up, and voices were heard in the
hall. The room gradually filled with women with whom Jeanne was not
acquainted; then the Marquise de Coutelier and the Vicomtesse de
Briseville arrived, and went up to her and kissed her. She suddenly
perceived that Aunt Lison was in the room, and she gave her such an
affectionate embrace, that the old maid was nearly overcome. Julien came
in dressed in deep mourning; he seemed very busy, and very pleased that
all these people had come. He whispered some question to his wife about
the arrangements, and added in a low tone:

"It will be a very grand funeral; all the best families are here."

Then he went away again, bowing to the ladies as he passed down the
room.

Aunt Lison and the Comtesse Gilberte stayed with Jeanne while the burial
was taking place. The comtesse repeatedly kissed her, murmuring: "Poor
darling, poor darling," and when the Comte de Fourville came to take his
wife home, he wept as if he had lost his own mother.

X

The next few days were very sad, as they always must be directly after a
death. The absence of the familiar face from its accustomed place makes
the house seem empty, and each time the eye falls on anything the dear,
dead one has had in constant use, a fresh pang of sorrow darts through
the heart. There is the empty chair, the umbrella still standing in the
hall, the glass which the maid has not yet washed. In every room there
is something lying just as it was left for the last time; the scissors,
an odd glove, the fingered book, the numberless other objects, which,
insignificant in themselves, become a source of sharp pain because they
recall so vividly the loved one who has passed away. And the voice rings
in one's ears till it seems almost a reality, but there is no escape
from the house haunted by this presence, for others are suffering also,
and all must stay and suffer with each other.

In addition to her natural grief, Jeanne had to bear the pain of her
discovery. She was always thinking of it, and the terrible secret
increased her former sense of desolation tenfold, for now she felt that
she could never put her trust or confidence in anyone again.

The baron soon went away, thinking to find relief from the grief which
was deadening all his faculties in change of air and change of scene,
and the household at Les Peuples resumed its quiet regular life again.

Then Paul fell ill, and Jeanne passed twelve days in an agony of fear,
unable to sleep and scarcely touching food. The boy got well, but there
remained the thought that he might die. What should she do if he did?
What would become of her? Gradually there came a vague longing for
another child, and soon she could think of nothing else; she had always
fancied she should like two children, a boy and a girl, and the idea of
having a daughter haunted her. But since Rosalie had been sent away, she
had lived quite apart from her husband, and at the present moment it
seemed utterly impossible to renew their former relations. Julien's
affections were centered elsewhere; she knew that; and, on her side, the
mere thought of having to submit to his caresses again, made her shudder
with disgust.

Still, she would have overcome her repugnance (so tormented was she by
the desire of another child) if she could have seen any way to bring
about the intimacy she desired; but she would have died rather than let
her husband guess what was in her thoughts, and he never seemed to dream
of approaching her now. Perhaps she would have given up the idea had not
each night the vision of a daughter playing with Paul under the plane
tree appeared to her. Sometimes she felt she must get up and join her
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